


bright on a gray background

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alphynecentric, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Autistic Frisk, Depression, F/F, Fluff, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a bad brain weather day threatens to sabotage your babysitting plans, it's up to your girlfriend to come to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bright on a gray background

**Author's Note:**

> _(her best friend is a sun dress_ – oil on the puddles in taffeta patterns)
> 
> this was originally going to be for alphyne week, but life interfered, and i have Vastly Overshot My Target, whoops.
> 
> also, does autistic frisk have a tag. should i make it a tag. because that is definitely a thing that is happening in this fic, just so u know

Undyne regards you with a critical eye as you huddle on the couch in your pajamas.

“We can still call this off if you’re not feeling up to it, you know,” she says. “Papyrus can take over if he has to, probably.”

You run your claws over your face and sigh. “No,” you tell her. “No, if we can—if we say—if we call it off at the last second like th-this I’ll just feel like _worse_ garbage. I’ll manage somehow.”

The two of you are supposed to be babysitting today. Toriel’s got a meeting and Asgore’s tied up with political things, and Sans still doesn’t like to have to mind all three kids at once for whatever Sans reasons he’s got. Maybe they’re just too rambunctious all together, or he’s not been feeling up to it either, but he always seems to sidestep neatly out of babysitting duties whenever Chara’s involved. But that’s a mystery you can get to the bottom of some other time, when you have the energy for it.

The point is, Toriel is going to be showing up with Frisk and Asriel and Chara in about ten minutes. Somehow or other you and Undyne have wound up being designated as the “fun aunts” and it’s actually kinda cool to be thought of like that, even if it’s mostly thanks to Undyne that you are. You don’t want to do anything to disillusion the kids and ruin that…

But, well, today is just kind of. One of those curl-into-a-ball-with-cup-noodles-and-wait-desperately-for-your-brain-to-stop-screaming days. There were some vague plans to redecorate the house, go window shopping, and do campfire cooking in the backyard, but. You don’t know if you can really handle all that anymore.

And the kids are—they’re kids, they’ll have been looking forward to it, they might not understand. You don’t want to totally let them down. You’re filled with frustration.

Undyne watches you grappling with yourself, folds her arms for a bit, and then cocks her head to one side. “All right, how’s this,” she says. “I’ll get the door and figure out something to keep them occupied, give you a chance to get yourself up and running some. How’s that sound?”

“Y—yeah, that might work, maybe,” you say.

The doorbell rings. You, uh, try not to cringe too obviously.

Undyne grins at you. “Just wait right here,” she says, and off she goes.

You hear the door opening, and cheerful piping voices. Your heart sinking in your chest is palpable, and you wish you had your desk to crawl under right now.

“I will be back at ten-thirty to pick them up,” Toriel says, and: “Be good, you three, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mom,” Asriel replies, dutiful; “Yes, Toriel,” Frisk chimes in, quieter, and: “I’ll try,” says Chara, cheerful. ( _“Chara,”_ you hear the other two hiss, and Undyne starts to cackle, and you imagine Toriel doing her Displeased Mom Face and smile a little despite yourself.)

“Look after them, Undyne,” Toriel goes on, her voice still tinged with a little wry amusement. “And you as well, Alphys,” she calls, a little louder.

Your smile fades.

There’s a chorus of “Bye”s, then the closing of the front door. Undyne lopes around the corner and then stops, leaning on the kitchen wall; you look down at your claws. In your peripheral vision you see two pairs of sneakered human feet and a set of neat white paws step onto the linoleum after her. Asriel’s claws tick on the surface a little, it’s cute. Frisk’s sneakers, you think it’s Frisk’s, squeak; it makes you wince.

“So!” Undyne proclaims, clapping her hands. “We’ve got us a change of plans, punks. We were gonna rearrange the inside of the house, but the tree out back just dropped a butt ton of leaves on our lawn. Which means we gotta rake it before it gets too cold! Because the cold sucks!!”

“Leaves!” Frisk squeaks, gleeful. You peek up to see that they’ve flung their arms into the air with joy. Asriel is giggling good-naturedly; Chara’s grin is sharp but filled with affection.

“Yeah?? So many even _you_ might get sick of ‘em,” Undyne says, which makes all of the kids laugh, because Frisk is not capable of getting sick of crackly sounds. It’s their second favorite thing, after hugging people. “I’ve got some stuff to take care of first, so I’ll get you short ones the rakes and you can get started? But no murder. Except leaf murder! You murder those leaves into neat piles!!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” rebuts Chara, who is nonetheless grinning even wider.

“It totally does, shut up, squirt,” Undyne retorts.

For all you feel like a wallflower at this dance today, it still makes you smile watching her: She’s good with them, like really good with them. She was always pretty good with Frisk, and she’s good with Papyrus, who has about the same energy and passion level as the kids; you can get how she’s good with shy obedient Asriel because, um, gpoy much???

But Chara has _really_ taken a shine to her for some reason. They’re more gregarious and smiley with her than they are with any of the other adults, including Papyrus, who can get smiles and nice feelings out of just about anybody. How she does it, you don’t know, but it’s amazing.

You wish you could be that person. You’ll never be, and it makes you want to find a nice dark corner to pretend you don’t exist in even more. Garbage thoughts are not good, and you try to kick yourself for having them, but this is just not heading in a good direction at all. Ugh.

“But _anyway,_ if you manage to murder those leaves into nice proper piles—” (more giggling from the kids here) “—I tell you what, we’ll go down to the store down the way and buy a ton of candy, it should all still be on sale. And then!! We will order pizza or something and watch movies until your mom gets back. Sound good to you?”

“Yeah!” go all three of them at once.

“Great!!” Undyne bellows. “Rakes are in the garage! Get to it!!!”

The kids let out a great cheer and stampede off through the door. You raise your head to observe Undyne watching them go with a satisfied expression.

“That takes care of that,” she says. “Now we don’t have to go out, or uh, you don’t, because I’ll be taking them to get the candy. You can stay inside! For now, I’m going to make you tea, because you need something other than gross-ass soda for once, and then you should take a shower and change into actual clothes, ‘cause that always seems to make you feel better.”

“Oh,” you say (aren’t you just a beacon of wit right now). You hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ll put the tea on for you now.” And she meanders off into the kitchen, her red hair a bright flag against the calming muted pastels you picked for the walls. You watch her, as if through some kind of filter; it feels almost as if she’s out of place here, or you are. She’s too vibrant for these surroundings, or maybe she just lends everything extra color except you.

But once she’s set the kettle on the stovetop, she walks matter-of-fact into the living room and plunks her butt down on the piano bench. She flips the lid off the keys and starts to play.

You close your eyes. Undyne is no professional, true, but there’s just something bizarrely soothing in her occasional missed notes and heavy hand (er, foot?) on the pedals. She plays for you, as much as herself. Maybe that’s why it’s so useful in pulling the curtains back in your mind. It’s imperfect, and it’s for you.

She goes on playing snatches of this and that until the kettle whistles, and then she stops. You crack your eyelids and adjust your glasses in time to watch her march back into the kitchen and pour your tea. She carries it over to you, too, once it’s ready.

“Thanks,” you say, and balance the saucer on your palm while you hook your claws through the handle. The steam wisps up in curlicues, which are calming to watch; you think it has something to do with eye motion, but neuroscience was never quite your field anyway, so you don’t try to chase that factoid through the cluttered filing cabinets of your mind. “Aren’t you going to go out and check on the kids?”

“Ehh,” says Undyne, shrugging. “They’ll survive another couple minutes on their own, probably. I have to make sure you drink that.”

You pull a face. When you’re putting liquids into your body, you prefer them to be either packed with sugar and caffeine, or at least with salt. And noodles, and freeze-dried vegetables or something.

“Too bad, so sad, you big nerd,” and she pats your round shoulder with a hard lean hand. “It’s better when it’s hot, drink it up.”

You pull another face, blow on the cup, and dash it all down in one gulp. It’s bitter and tastes like wet leaves, and you don’t know what Undyne likes about the stuff, except that it does have some kind of weird revitalizing property to it. Like a half-dead flower being watered, you can feel something deep down in there perking up.

“Good,” Undyne says, and leans down to plant a kiss on top of your head. You squawk and sputter. At least she had the courtesy to wait until you were done drinking; you’d’ve choked for sure. “Shower next. And you can pick the movies if you want.”

You smile up at her. It’s weak and shaky, but it’s genuine. “I-it’ll just be a big Ghibli marathon then,” you warn.

Undyne gives you her best shit-eating grin and shrugs. “You could do worse,” she tells you. “The kids’ll like it, anyway.”

Teacup and saucer still in your claws, you offer a watery laugh and throw your arms around her waist. She wraps one arm around your shoulders, and you think you are—if not _okay,_ then passable.

And that’s good enough, in your book.


End file.
